The Cottage, Thorpe Ambrose, Saturday, June 28.
“If you will promise not to be alarmed, Mamma Oldershaw, I will begin
this letter in a very odd way, by copying a page of a letter written
by somebody else. You have an excellent memory, and you may not have
forgotten that I received a note from Major Milroy’s mother (after she
had engaged me as governess) on Monday last. It was dated and signed;
and here it is, as far as the first page: ‘June 23d, 1851. Dear
Madam--Pray excuse my troubling you, before you go to Thorpe Ambrose,
with a word more about the habits observed in my son’s household. When
I had the pleasure of seeing you at two o’clock to-day, in Kingsdown
Crescent, I had another appointment in a distant part of London at
three; and, in the hurry of the moment, one or two little matters
escaped me which I think I ought to impress on your attention.’ The rest
of the letter is not of the slightest importance, but the lines that I
have just copied are well worthy of all the attention you can bestow on
them. They have saved me from discovery, my dear, before I have been a
week in Major Milroy’s service!
“It happened no later than yesterday evening, and it began and ended in
this manner:
“There is a gentleman here, (of whom I shall have more to say presently)
who is an intimate friend of young Armadale’s, and who bears the strange
name of Midwinter. He contrived yesterday to speak to me alone in the
park. Almost as soon as he opened his lips, I found that my name had
been discovered in London (no doubt by the Somersetshire clergyman);
and that Mr. Midwinter had been chosen (evidently by the same person)
to identify the Miss Gwilt who had vanished from Brompton with the Miss
Gwilt who had appeared at Thorpe Ambrose. You foresaw this danger, I
remember; but you could scarcely have imagined that the exposure would
threaten me so soon.
“I spare you the details of our conversation to come to the end.
Mr. Midwinter put the matter very delicately, declaring, to my great
surprise, that he felt quite certain himself that I was not the Miss
Gwilt of whom his friend was in search; and that he only acted as he did
out of regard to the anxiety of a person whose wishes he was bound to
respect. Would I assist him in setting that anxiety completely at rest,
as far as I was concerned, by kindly answering one plain question--which
he had no other right to ask me than the right my indulgence might
give him? The lost ‘Miss Gwilt’ had been missed on Monday last, at two
o’clock, in the crowd on the platform of the North-western Railway, in
Euston Square. Would I authorize him to say that on that day, and at
that hour, the Miss Gwilt who was Major Milroy’s governess had never
been near the place?
“I need hardly tell you that I seized the fine opportunity he had given
me of disarming all future suspicion. I took a high tone on the spot,
and met him with the old lady’s letter. He politely refused to look at
it. I insisted on his looking at it. ‘I don’t choose to be mistaken,’
I said, ‘for a woman who may be a bad character, because she happens
to bear, or to have assumed, the same name as mine. I insist on your
reading the first part of this letter for my satisfaction, if not for
your own.’ He was obliged to comply; and there was the proof, in the old
lady’s handwriting, that, at two o’clock on Monday last, she and I were
together in Kingsdown Crescent, which any directory would tell him is a
‘crescent’ in Bayswater! I leave you to imagine his apologies, and the
perfect sweetness with which I received them.
“I might, of course, if I had not preserved the letter, have referred
him to you, or to the major’s mother, with similar results. As it is,
the object has been gained without trouble or delay. _I have been proved
not to be myself_; and one of the many dangers that threatened me
at Thorpe Ambrose is a danger blown over from this moment. Your
house-maid’s face may not be a very handsome one; but there is no
denying that it has done us excellent service.
“So much for the past; now for the future. You shall hear how I get
on with the people about me; and you shall judge for yourself what the
chances are for and against my becoming mistress of Thorpe Ambrose.
“Let me begin with young Armadale--because it is beginning with good
news. I have produced the right impression on him already, and Heaven
knows _that_ is nothing to boast of! Any moderately good-looking woman
who chose to take the trouble could make him fall in love with her. He
is a rattle-pated young fool--one of those noisy, rosy, light-haired,
good-tempered men whom I particularly detest. I had a whole hour alone
with him in a boat, the first day I came here, and I have made good use
of my time, I can tell you, from that day to this. The only difficulty
with him is the difficulty of concealing my own feelings, especially
when he turns my dislike of him into downright hatred by sometimes
reminding me of his mother. I really never saw a man whom I could use
so ill, if I had the opportunity. He will give me the opportunity, I
believe, if no accident happens, sooner than we calculated on. I have
just returned from a party at the great house, in celebration of the
rent-day dinner, and the squire’s attentions to me, and my modest
reluctance to receive them, have already excited general remark.
“My pupil, Miss Milroy, comes next. She, too, is rosy and foolish;
and, what is more, awkward and squat and freckled, and ill-tempered and
ill-dressed. No fear of _her_, though she hates me like poison, which
is a great comfort, for I get rid of her out of lesson time and walking
time. It is perfectly easy to see that she has made the most of her
opportunities with young Armadale (opportunities, by-the-by, which we
never calculated on), and that she has been stupid enough to let him
slip through her fingers. When I tell you that she is obliged, for
the sake of appearances, to go with her father and me to the little
entertainments at Thorpe Ambrose, and to see how young Armadale admires
me, you will understand the kind of place I hold in her affections. She
would try me past all endurance if I didn’t see that I aggravate her by
keeping my temper, so, of course, I keep it. If I do break out, it will
be over our lessons--not over our French, our grammar, history, and
globes--but over our music. No words can say how I feel for her poor
piano. Half the musical girls in England ought to have their fingers
chopped off in the interests of society, and, if I had my way, Miss
Milroy’s fingers should be executed first.
“As for the major, I can hardly stand higher in his estimation than I
stand already. I am always ready to make his breakfast, and his daughter
is not. I can always find things for him when he loses them, and his
daughter can’t. I never yawn when he proses, and his daughter does. I
like the poor dear harmless old gentleman, so I won’t say a word more
about him.
“Well, here is a fair prospect for the future surely? My good Oldershaw,
there never was a prospect yet without an ugly place in it. _My_
prospect has two ugly places in it. The name of one of them is Mrs.
Milroy, and the name of the other is Mr. Midwinter.
“Mrs. Milroy first. Before I had been five minutes in the cottage, on
the day of my arrival, what do you think she did? She sent downstairs
and asked to see me. The message startled me a little, after hearing
from the old lady, in London, that her daughter-in-law was too great a
sufferer to see anybody; but, of course, when I got her message, I had
no choice but to go up stairs to the sick-room. I found her bedridden
with an incurable spinal complaint, and a really horrible object to look
at, but with all her wits about her; and, if I am not greatly mistaken,
as deceitful a woman, with as vile a temper, as you could find anywhere
in all your long experience. Her excessive politeness, and her keeping
her own face in the shade of the bed-curtains while she contrived to
keep mine in the light, put me on my guard the moment I entered the
room. We were more than half an hour together, without my stepping
into any one of the many clever little traps she laid for me. The only
mystery in her behavior, which I failed to see through at the time, was
her perpetually asking me to bring her things (things she evidently did
not want) from different parts of the room.
“Since then events have enlightened me. My first suspicions were raised
by overhearing some of the servants’ gossip; and I have been confirmed
in my opinion by the conduct of Mrs. Milroy’s nurse.
“On the few occasions when I have happened to be alone with the major,
the nurse has also happened to want something of her master, and has
invariably forgotten to announce her appearance by knocking, at the
door. Do you understand now why Mrs. Milroy sent for me the moment I got
into the house, and what she wanted when she kept me going backward and
forward, first for one thing and then for another? There is hardly an
attractive light in which my face and figure can be seen, in which
that woman’s jealous eyes have not studied them already. I am no longer
puzzled to know why the father and daughter started, and looked at each
other, when I was first presented to them; or why the servants still
stare at me with a mischievous expectation in their eyes when I ring the
bell and ask them to do anything. It is useless to disguise the truth,
Mother Oldershaw, between you and me. When I went upstairs into that
sickroom, I marched blindfold into the clutches of a jealous woman. If
Mrs. Milroy _can_ turn me out of the house, Mrs. Milroy _will_; and,
morning and night, she has nothing else to do in that bed prison of hers
but to find out the way.
“In this awkward position, my own cautious conduct is admirably seconded
by the dear old major’s perfect insensibility. His wife’s jealousy
of him is as monstrous a delusion as any that could be found in
a mad-house; it is the growth of her own vile temper, under the
aggravation of an incurable illness. The poor man hasn’t a thought
beyond his mechanical pursuits; and I don’t believe he knows at this
moment whether I am a handsome woman or not. With this chance to
help me, I may hope to set the nurse’s intrusions and the mistress’s
contrivances at defiance--for a time, at any rate. But you know what a
jealous woman is, and I think I know what Mrs. Milroy is; and I own
I shall breathe more freely on the day when young Armadale opens his
foolish lips to some purpose, and sets the major advertising for a new
governess.
“Armadale’s name reminds me of Armadale’s friend. There is more danger
threatening in that quarter; and, what is worse, I don’t feel half as
well armed beforehand against Mr. Midwinter as I do against Mrs. Milroy.
“Everything about this man is more or less mysterious, which I don’t
like, to begin with. How does he come to be in the confidence of the
Somersetshire clergyman? How much has that clergyman told him? How is it
that he was so firmly persuaded, when he spoke to me in the park, that
I was not the Miss Gwilt of whom his friend was in search? I haven’t the
ghost of an answer to give to any of those three questions. I can’t
even discover who he is, or how he and young Armadale first became
acquainted. I hate him. No, I don’t; I only want to find out about him.
He is very young, little and lean, and active and dark, with bright
black eyes which say to me plainly, ‘We belong to a man with brains in
his head and a will of his own; a man who hasn’t always been hanging
about a country house, in attendance on a fool.’ Yes; I am positively
certain Mr. Midwinter has done something or suffered something in his
past life, young as he is; and I would give I don’t know what to get at
it. Don’t resent my taking up so much space in my writing about him. He
has influence enough over young Armadale to be a very awkward obstacle
in my way, unless I can secure his good opinion at starting.
“Well, you may ask, and what is to prevent your securing his good
opinion? I am sadly afraid, Mother Oldershaw, I have got it on terms
I never bargained for I am sadly afraid the man is in love with me
already.
“Don’t toss your head and say, ‘Just like her vanity!’ After the horrors
I have gone through, I have no vanity left; and a man who admires me
is a man who makes me shudder. There was a time, I own--Pooh! what am I
writing? Sentiment, I declare! Sentiment to _you_! Laugh away, my dear.
As for me, I neither laugh nor cry; I mend my pen, and get on with
my--what do the men call it?--my report.
“The only thing worth inquiring is, whether I am right or wrong in my
idea of the impression I have made on him.
“Let me see; I have been four times in his company. The first time was
in the major’s garden, where we met unexpectedly, face to face. He stood
looking at me, like a man petrified, without speaking a word. The effect
of my horrid red hair, perhaps? Quite likely; let us lay it on my hair.
The second time was in going over the Thorpe Ambrose grounds, with young
Armadale on one side of me, and my pupil (in the sulks) on the other.
Out comes Mr. Midwinter to join us, though he had work to do in the
steward’s office, which he had never been known to neglect on any other
occasion. Laziness, possibly? or an attachment to Miss Milroy? I can’t
say; we will lay it on Miss Milroy, if you like; I only know he did
nothing but look at _me_. The third time was at the private interview
in the park, which I have told you of already. I never saw a man so
agitated at putting a delicate question to a woman in my life. But
_that_ might have been only awkwardness; and his perpetually looking
back after me when we had parted might have been only looking back at
the view. Lay it on the view; by all means, lay it on the view! The
fourth time was this very evening, at the little party. They made me
play; and, as the piano was a good one, I did my best. All the company
crowded round me, and paid me their compliments (my charming pupil
paid hers, with a face like a cat’s just before she spits), except Mr.
Midwinter. _He_ waited till it was time to go, and then he caught me
alone for a moment in the hall. There was just time for him to take my
hand, and say two words. Shall I tell you _how_ he took my hand, and
what his voice sounded like when he spoke? Quite needless! You have
always told me that the late Mr. Oldershaw doted on you. Just recall the
first time he took your hand, and whispered a word or two addressed to
your private ear. To what did you attribute his behavior that occasion?
I have no doubt, if you had been playing on the piano in the course of
the evening, you would have attributed it entirely to the music!
“No! you may take my word for it, the harm is done. _This_ man is no
rattle-pated fool, who changes his fancies as readily as he changes his
clothes. The fire that lights those big black eyes of his is not an easy
fire, when a woman has once kindled it, for that woman to put out. I
don’t wish to discourage you; I don’t say the changes are against us.
But with Mrs. Milroy threatening me on one side, and Mr. Midwinter on
the other, the worst of all risks to run is the risk of losing time.
Young Armadale has hinted already, as well as such a lout can hint, at
a private interview! Miss Milroy’s eyes are sharp, and the nurse’s eyes
are sharper; and I shall lose my place if either of them find me out. No
matter! I must take my chance, and give him the interview. Only let me
get him alone, only let me escape the prying eyes of the women, and--if
his friend doesn’t come between us--I answer for the result!
“In the meantime, have I anything more to tell you? Are there any other
people in our way at Thorpe Ambrose? Not another creature! None of the
resident families call here, young Armadale being, most fortunately, in
bad odor in the neighborhood. There are no handsome highly-bred women to
come to the house, and no persons of consequence to protest against his
attentions to a governess. The only guests he could collect at his
party to-night were the lawyer and his family (a wife, a son, and
two daughters), and a deaf old woman and _her_ son--all perfectly
unimportant people, and all obedient humble servants of the stupid young
squire.
“Talking of obedient humble servants, there is one other person
established here, who is employed in the steward’s office--a miserable,
shabby, dilapidated old man, named Bashwood. He is a perfect stranger to
me, and I am evidently a perfect stranger to him, for he has been asking
the house-maid at the cottage who I am. It is paying no great compliment
to myself to confess it, but it is not the less true that I produced the
most extraordinary impression on this feeble old creature the first
time he saw me. He turned all manner of colors, and stood trembling and
staring at me, as if there was something perfectly frightful in my face.
I felt quite startled for the moment, for, of all the ways in which men
have looked at me, no man ever looked at me in that way before. Did you
ever see the boa constrictor fed at the Zoological Gardens? They put a
live rabbit into his cage, and there is a moment when the two creatures
look at each other. I declare Mr. Bashwood reminded me of the rabbit.
“Why do I mention this? I don’t know why. Perhaps I have been writing
too long, and my head is beginning to fail me. Perhaps Mr. Bashwood’s
manner of admiring me strikes my fancy by its novelty. Absurd! I am
exciting myself, and troubling you about nothing. Oh, what a weary, long
letter I have written! and how brightly the stars look at me through the
window, and how awfully quiet the night is! Send me some more of those
sleeping drops, and write me one of your nice, wicked, amusing letters.
You shall hear from me again as soon as I know a little better how it is
all likely to end. Good-night, and keep a corner in your stony old heart
for
“L. G.”